Binselong

If you were a traveler, stopping at our outpost for a quick fuel-up or a customs check or any excuse to no longer be on a tin can hurtling through the cold vacuum of space, and you happened to look down a certain alleyway to the Monstrous Ink Body Modification Salon, you would quickly turn away. Because it looks like the sort of alleyway where you’d be mugged, kidnapped, and auctioned off organ by organ.

It’s not really that bad. It used to be that bad. There are still parts of the city that are just that bad. But you wouldn’t know, looking at the beat-up ancient LCD shop windows or the semi-permanent scaffolding around the second story, that this wasn’t a bad place to do business.

And that’s no skin off our back, because no accidental tourist wants a tattoo anyway, at least not once they realize it’s permanent and at least somewhat painful, depending on how acutely your species feels pain. Once in a while an adventurous (or oblivious) soul does stumble in, but it’s never very long before they stumble right back out.

That’s what I thought when the binselong walked in our shop.

It was my first time seeing one in real life, though I’d seen plenty in youvies. He was lizardy, with a crest of frills fanning out from his scalp, and white as a dead moon. But as he settled into our waiting room and began to look around, purple and blue dots grew like freckles all over his arms and face. Even the tip of his flicking tail turned dark violet.

I had time, so I thought I’d mess with him a while. “Afternoon,” I said. “You here for tattoos, piercing, or something a little more exciting? We just got in some great new skeleton mods, if you’d like me to show you. It’s pretty gruesome.”

His big eyes met mine. He froze in place, turning canary yellow, then back to white.

He swallowed and said, “It said on your wiki that Wakuchin works here?”

Well, that wasn’t the followup I’d expected. “That’s me. Are you” –it seemed impossible, but now I had to ask– “actually interested in a tattoo? They’re permanent, yanno.”

He brightened, literally, turning orange, peach, and sweet melon green. “Yes! It said on your wiki you take walk-ins, so, I walked in? But it hasn’t been updated in a while, so I worried something had changed. I’m only here for a few days, so… oh, uh, are your rates still the same as online?”

I nodded slowly while I processed the rapid-fire wordstream. He barely paused for me.

“Oh, great! I really, really like your full body designs. The geometric ones? So I was wondering if you could do something like that for me. If you could design it? I mean, I’d be glad to give you some input, if you want, but you’re an artist, and I’m not? How does this work?”

I took another moment to think. “If you want, I can take some photos and do a sketch, for a non-refundable deposit. But a full pattern is a big deal. If you’ve seen the before-and-afters in my portfolio, then you should know, it can really change the way you look. Most folks get at least a few smaller pieces before making a decision like this. Do you have any tattoos now?”

“No, but.” He turned a brilliant tangerine. “I’ve been planning for ages. We just don’t really do tattoos on Binsalor. I did a lot of research, and your work speaks to me, do you know what I mean? It took a lot of arranging to get out here in the first place, it really means a lot to me.”

What the hell, I thought. It was a slow day, no harm in getting paid for a sketch. “OK, I said. “Come back with me, step into the camera.”

*

The next day, I sent the finished sketch, in full 360 and simulated color animations, to his capsule. He’d had to be still for the rotating camera, so I hadn’t gotten much more talk out of him the previous day — a shame, because the kid was a riot. (I couldn’t place binselong ages too well, but I had the feeling he was relatively young.)

I also didn’t know anything about binselong gender or reproduction, so I wasn’t entirely sure I was using the right pronoun. And whatever genitalia he had or didn’t have, it was the kind that hid from view even during a naked photo shoot.

All I really knew for sure was his name: Callumma. “But call me Cal,” he told me.

“You can call me Watch,” I offered back.

He dialed me up that afternoon: “Okay, I finally see what you were talking about. When you described your idea to me, I was a little skeptical, right? But it all makes sense now, like it was meant to be that way all along. How soon can you schedule me in?”

We got him into a chair in the studio the next day. “This is the nanopen,” I explained, showing him the tool I use on reptiloids. “Your body uses electricity to tell your skin what color to be, so we’re using our own electricity to block the signal. I just have to touch the tip to your skin and keep it there for a moment. No blood, no ink. It’ll feel like you’re vibrating, and then it might ache off and on for a few days after. If you’re feeling too sore, just tell me to stop. Any questions?”

He turned splotches of vibrant green, like he’d just grown a new coat of fresh leaves. I could almost smell springtime on him. “I’ve never been more ready,” he said.

Nanopens are great, great tools, but the one drawback about them is that you have to press the pen to each scale, individually, and wait a few seconds before moving on. In other words, it’s tedious for both artist and subject. To lighten both of our minds, I decided to make small talk. “So, when you get back to your planet, and somebody asks you what your tattoo’s all about, what are you gonna tell ’em?”

He flashed a series of colors before settling into maroon. “It’s super dumb. They parade you around in front of all these people who place bids, and the winner makes you her housebound. I know, I know, it sounds barbaric, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not sure I really understand, but it sounds like a rich people thing,” I hazarded.

“Rich people! Yes, it’s a rich people thing. Our planet has too many rich people? Well, here I am using my parents’ money to pay for a tattoo to impress a wealthy suitress, so I shouldn’t talk. But anyway, it’s all part of my plan. To take advantage of the system. Beat them at their own game?”

“How so?”

“Well, I can’t be the only one who’s so over the whole idea of Choosing. So I’m going to be absolutely scandalous instead. Maybe, daring? But hopefully, attractive-daring. I’m pretty optimistic since seeing the sketch. I could wear something strange, or get a piercing, and you might see me and think, ‘Oh, he has some strange ideas, but we’ll sort him out.’ But a tattoo won’t go away.”

As he unveiled his grand plan, his neck, chin and cheeks bloomed brighter and brighter. I thought of those candies that change color the more you suck on them. “I follow you so far. You want folks to think you’re incurably… odd?”

“Unique,” he corrected me. “So only someone looking for a unique partner will place a bid in the first place. I can’t decide who the highest bidder will be, but I can make it clear I won’t be a normal, demure housebound. And I’ll get Chosen by somebody who would want that kind of crazy. Somebody really special.”

“Ah,” I said. “I thought this was going in a ‘fuck you, I ain’t nobody’s toy’ kind of direction. But that works, too.” Actually, I thought his whole plan had some major holes, but I had to admire his spunk.

He kept talking, telling me a scattered narrative about his family, hadron colliders, and clean water futures. He asked me a few questions, too, mostly about my tattoos and piercings. “Is it rude to ask if your horns are natural, or implants?” he wanted to know.

“Depends on the context, but considering we’re in a mod shop, don’t worry about it. They’re all natural.” I winked.

Meanwhile, as we talked, his skin was becoming incredible colors around where my needle charred it: thick spots of red, black, and blue, as clearly as if I’d beaten him bloody. His eyelids turned fresh-tears pink, and he rubbed his face on his shoulder, though it was dry. What a kid, constitutionally incapable of playing it close to the chest. On any other planet he’d have be destroyed in a heartbeat. It was a wonder he made it to our outpost all in one piece.

“Is it starting to sting yet?” I asked. “Maybe we should take a break.”

“Sorry, I’m a wimp.” He rubbed his face on his shoulder again. “But I’m good. It’s going a lot quicker than I thought it would.”

I was finishing done with his arms, ready to move on to his chest. I had him take off his undershirt for me, and I set my hands on his chest to work. They left orange handprints when I moved them, and I couldn’t help but stare.

After that, I was too focused on my job to make small talk, and he seemed fine to let his head loll back and breathe. I carved crisply curving stripes around his chest and down his belly, then turned him over to do the same to his back. He arched and whimpered, but it didn’t sound exactly like pain to me.

I shook my head to clear it. Just to be safe, I asked him a second time if he needed a break, but again he denied it. I had him take off his weird white underwear for me (the binselong call them shitagi, I later found out), and I couldn’t help noticing what I’d decided to politely ignore while photographing him before: he had a nice ass. And the way he was breathing while I drew on him made me want to touch him in more, decidedly unprofessional ways.

I brought him over a towel, for modesty, and told him to flip back over. While I drew the pen along the front of his legs, something rose up underneath the thin towel, and little muffled sounds escaped his throat. This would be good for him if it escalated, I decided. Low-stakes, low-risk sexy touching, from someone who would never seek him out and hound him in the future. If it was good, if I was good to him, maybe he’d reconsider allowing himself to be lotteried away…

God, what was I thinking? I had to insist on taking a break, now. “Cal,” I began, giving his leg a firm pay-attention-to-me squeeze.

At my sudden, hard touch, his body jerked softly. “Oh,” he said, sounding almost surprised, thrusting his hips and and leaving an incongruously dark stain on the towel. On instinct, I kept my hand on his leg through his aftershocks, but just rested it there.

When his eyes blinked open again, he turned an unflattering shade of green and shrank away. My stomach clenched. “Sorry, sorry, that was my fault. Don’t be embarrassed, it’s a natural reaction, happens more often in tattoo parlors than you’d think.” I paced over to the mini-fridge for a bottle of water, and brought it back to him with a second, clean towel. “Here, you’ve just had too much stimulation. I should have let you take a break earlier. Relax for a little bit, I’m gonna go outside for a smoke.”

I stalked outside and chain-smoked two cigarettes that I had to bum off another artist because I officially quit years ago. My hands were shaking. What just happened, and was it wrong? Two cigarettes didn’t give me any answers, just the fear that I was compounding my error by running from him like a coward.

I power-walked back, but what I found was Cal back in his shirt and underwear, polishing off the last of the water and grinning at me. His bright color proved it wasn’t an act, and so I relaxed. Smiling back at him, I asked, “You ready to get your calves done?”

*

I pulled together all the mirrors I could find on short notice to give him a full view of himself that wasn’t through a camera lense. He turned the color of pink lemonade and twisted all over to get a better view.

I’d given him lean black stripes that started from his spine, caressed his torso, and curled down his ribs, ending in thin, sharp points. Black, he’d told me, was the one color he couldn’t turn. The contrast made his color-changing act even more striking — stunning, even, if I can be forgiven for bragging about my work.

“Thank you so much. It’s just like I thought it would be — like a piece of me that was meant to be there all along.” He kept on saying thank-you, right up through settling the bill and gathering his things. He left a nice tip, too. “I’m definitely gonna get Chosen by somebody amazing, thanks to you.”

“Well,” I told him, “whoever it is, they’ll be making a lot of folks jealous. Myself included.” He turned a funny heliotrope and fish-mouthed wordlessly. I just laughed. “I forgive her in advance. Just, please come back and visit. I want to know how it turns out for you. Bring your her, too. Maybe I can give a matching set.”

After that, I put him in an autober (still a little concerned for his safety), and he was gone. Not without a trace: I still had his before-and-after pictures, which became a point of pride in my portfolio. I thought about him, from time to time, and imagined the person who chose him. She’d be an artist, fabulously wealthy, and every day, she’d make him light up. They’d do that for each other, two little prisms sparkling together.

And sometimes, late at night, I’d picture him in the chair again, vulnerable and hard, and this time, oh, this time I’d pry apart his legs and fuck him raw, and he’d moan under me, claw at my shoulders, wrap his legs around me, swear he’d never go back.

*

Some years later, he came back.

He was standing at the front of the shop again, staring up at the designs and photos on the wall. At one photo in particular: his own. But the man standing in our lobby was hardly like the one in the photo. His white skin was flecked with grey and the occasional barely-blue spot, giving the impression of a concrete statue. And this time, when I called out to him, “Cal!” and his eyes met mine, instead of turning that shocking yellow, he flushed a weak green around his neck, which quickly faded away.

The tattoos I’d given him were still there, and they were still striking, but without his color display, some of the effect was lost.

“I was going to open with, ‘You probably don’t remember me, but…'” he started. “But even if you didn’t, the photographic evidence is hard to ignore.” He was quieter than I remembered, and spoke more slowly.

I didn’t know enough about binselong to know if these were the natural effects of aging on his species, or… what. One thing that didn’t change was, he was still tiny. But again, I didn’t know if he was small in particular, or if his whole race was like that.

I went in closer. “Never thought I’d see you out here again.” Hoped, but. “Were you just in the neighborhood, or what?”

“I told you I would. I’m onworld for a while,” he answered, watching my knees. “For I-don’t-know-how-long, actually. I’m sort of… in a state of transition? I’m taking a long holiday. For my health.” His laugh was brittle. “Sorry, I took a slow boat. I’ve been in captivity too long.”

I blinked and tried to rearrange the dump of information into a meaningful narrative. A slow boat — the worst way to travel space, but the cheapest. Taking a holiday, maybe. An unknown timeline and destination.

I did not like the story I was coming up with.

Just then, a gaggle of sharkhead teenagers came in through the door. It had been a busy day, and it was only going to get busier. “I want to catch up, but now isn’t a good time,” I told him with genuine regret. “Tomorrow, though. It’s my day off, can I take you out to lunch?”

I picked him up the next day at the address he’d given me — talk about your bad neighborhoods. I was going to have to explain the local geography to him before he found himself missing an organ. From there I showed him to a cheap-ish canteen that served good sandwiches and unlimited hot tea. It was strange to see his fingers turn blue around the steaming mug.

“The story?” I said after we ordered.

He looked away. “Well, the extremely short version is, I didn’t get Chosen.”

My pre-planned response died in my throat. I’d been ready to hear that his baron wife had been a beast masquerading as a beauty, and I’d been ready to decry his whole culture barbaric and chauvinistic. My I-told-you-so would have been perfect. But…

“Why?” I asked. “Was it, it wasn’t the tattoos?”

He shrugged, seeming to become smaller as he did so. “That’s what everyone said. Nobody wants a crazy housebound.” He smiled even as he turned faintly periwinkle.

“But you were beautiful.”

He winced sepia. Then I realized what I’d said, the past tense. I bit down on my lip piercing in self-reproach.

“I didn’t say they weren’t interested,” he said. “Just not in a Choosing sort of way. But it was always the same story. They were quick to put me in my place. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“And you left to get away from all that?”

He tilted his head, considering. “More or less. A lot of things happened. My parents and I had a falling-out over my admittedly terrible life choices. My friends didn’t want to be associated with such a colossal failure. My job had at least been going well, but then the hadron market crashed, and I never had enough money, and I was stressed out and cranky all the time, which is maybe why the woman I was living with was treating me the way she did, but it all came to a head when… well. I got a ticket away, and that’s that.”

We were quiet for a while. I still had some very strong opinions on everything that was wrong with his planet, but I didn’t have the heart to dump it all on him just then. I compromised: “The only mistake I think you made,” I told him, “was buying into all those ideas in the first place.”

He put his cheek down on the table. “I guess you’re right.”

Our food came. He chewed slowly and quietly, and I took out my anger at myself on my sandwich by tearing into it viciously. I was such an ass, kicking him when we was down. Halfway through decimating my plate, I asked him, “So what are your plans now?”

“I’m hoping I can find some work to do here. I’m pretty much broke, so, not much of a choice, right? I don’t have what you might have an overarching life goal right now. ‘Don’t die,’ I guess is the plan.”

“But here?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I like it here, and I’m going to stay until I dissolve, but you could get a fresh start anywhere.”

“I have good memories here,” he explained, as if that was the most anyone could ask for.

This damn kid. Well, not so much of a kid anymore, but still. So, he’d had a few bad relationships, and the universe wasn’t the happy-go-lucky place he’d once thought. So what? I’d suffered worse than that ten times over, so why was it killing me to see him like this now?

“Let me help you,” I offered. “I know people here. I’ll show you around, introduce you. And you cannot stay in that capsule anymore, you’re a crime waiting to happen. For the next couple of nights, you’re crashing on the studio couch.”

I didn’t let him argue. I settled the bill, we picked up his suitcases, and went back to the studio. He was out almost as soon as he hit the couch, dead asleep in the middle of the afternoon.

*

I made some introductions, and in the space of a week, he found a second-shift job cashiering at the closest bodega. I couldn’t imagine he enjoyed the work, but he didn’t complain. He worked off stress in his downtime by sweeping up and organizing things around the studio, which my boss liked a lot. With her approval, ‘a couple nights’ turned into ‘a week’ turned into ‘until the end of the month.’

Be that as it was, we didn’t see as much of each other after that as I thought we would. Half the time I was in the shop, he was out working, and even when he was around, I gave him his space. I could have found an excuse to bother him — it was our break room he was living in, after all — but I couldn’t add to that pale pallor.

Weekends were different. When we shared days off, I took him around the city and helped him get set up. We opened him a bank account, I showed him which streets were safe and which to avoid, and together we tried some new restaurants. I kept introducing him to people, and I only felt a little bit put out with myself when he and Magda were so taken with each other, they spent most of our group’s dodgeball tournament chatting in the ‘out’ zone.

Near the month’s end, I helped him go apartment shopping. The selection was abysmal — everything he could afford was either depressingly dim, or small, or unsafe, or some combination of the above. By the end of the day, I was frustrated, and he was was grey.

“Let’s think about other options,” I told him over coffee after we left the rental agency empty-handed. “I can see who needs a roommate. We can go to a different agency, see if other places have a better selection. Or I can convince the boss to keep you on as a paid employee, so you’d be able to afford a better place. What do you think?”

He was strangely quiet.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I was just thinking… how nice you are to me, spending all your time trying to help out. It’s really too much.”

“Hey, hey,” I objected. “At first, I was just doing you a basic kindness, but I like to think we’re friends now. Are you saying I shouldn’t?”

“No, not that at all,” he said. “Just that, at this rate, I’ll start depending on you, and you won’t be able to get rid of me, and you’ll regret helping me in the first place.”

My shoulders sank. “I’m not trying to make you feel trapped, or beholden to me. I just wanted to do something nice for you. I want to see you turn all your colors again, like your old self.”

He shifted, turning a little brown in the temples. “But that’s just it,” he said. “I’m not ever going to be my old self again. I’m never going to light up, like I used to.”

“But you light me up.”

There, I’d said it. I was pretty certain he knew, anyway — he had to know. Nobody without a crush would be as persistent as I’d been. I was breaking an unspoken rule of our relationship, definitely, by saying it out loud. He didn’t owe me anything. It was unfair of me to bring it up.

His mouth quirked. “See, I don’t know what you mean by that. Am I amusing? Do you feel sorry for me? Do you feel guilty? Because, please don’t feel guilty, you know, I think you were right about everything, looking back on it. Everything works out the way it’s supposed to, one way or another. Even though I’m, you know, I’m an absolute mess, and I’ve made a mess of everything, and I don’t want to make a mess of me and you.”

I slid a hand over to his side of the table. “I do not feel even a little bit guilty,” I confessed.

He looked down at my outstretched hand, then tentatively touched it with his own. I closed my fingers around his. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t think… I hoped, but…”

We left the coffee shop together and took a walk around the neighborhood, arms brushing side-by-side. I wanted to hold him close, but there was still so much I didn’t understand about him, physically, and I held back. A cop came by and gave us some grief about ‘acting suspicious,’ and when we finally got away, I asked Cal, “Want to come over for a while? We can talk. Or. Whatever you want.”

It was the first time I’d had him over, and the place a was a mess, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. We got in the door, kicked off our shoes, and drew together. I slowly, carefully, put my arms around him, and he seemed to like that.

He stood up on his tiptoes and flicked his long, narrow tongue against my neck. It felt more like a peck on the cheek than an attempt at being sensual. “Do binselong touch lips?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “We rub tongues,” he said. “Can I…?”

I leaned my head down, opened my mouth, and closed my eyes. The tip of his tongue met mine, then more of it slid into my mouth. I jerked back. “Too much, too fast.” We tried again, and this time was better. His tongue rubbed slowly up and down mine, and it felt better than I would ever have imagined. Then he dragged it across my lips, and that was fantastic. He seemed especially fascinated with my lip ring, going back and forth over it. I let him take his time.

But eventually, he let me go. “Can we try it your way now?” he asked. So I tipped his chin up and pressed a kiss to his dry lips. I sucked his bottom lip, and he returned the favor by sucking my lip, and then specifically my lip ring. He slid his tongue through it. I thought my legs would give out underneath me.

“You taste good,” he told me.

“You’re fantastic,” I said in a haze. “What do you want now?”

“I want to keep doing this,” he said, “but I also want to be more comfortable, so can we go to nest, please, I mean, literally, but also figuratively because I want you to nest me, I mean, what I mean is, I really want–”

“I think I want that too,” I answered. It wasn’t a far distance to the bedroom, and the bed was really just a couple of mattresses on the floor, but he flopped into it like it was the height of luxury, and pulled me down on top of him. I kissed his neck while he tongued the base of my horns and the points of my ears, until we were both breathless.

I reached for his hip, and he obligingly pressed his thumb to the sensor that unlocked his safety gear. He shucked it off along with his undershirt, leaving just his shitagi. Once again, I ran my hand down his chest, looking to make marks. In the dim light, I couldn’t tell if I was leaving any new ones, but I could make out the tattoos I’d drawn over his ribs.

“Remember when I made you come just by touching your thighs?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I was so embarrassed but I didn’t want you to stop,” he admitted. “Don’t tease me like that tonight. Just touch me.”

“I want to,” I told him. “But… have you been with many partners outside your species?”

“Not any,” he admitted.

“Any men, at all?”

“Does it matter? I’ve been with plenty of women.”

“It might matter, if you want me to enter you. Or vice versa,” I added after a moment’s thought.

He looked at me funny for a moment, then laughed. “Ohh, I see. You don’t have a tail. I see where your confusion is coming from. Don’t worry about me, I love to take it.”

I blinked. “That’s hot when you say it like that. Say again?”

“What? I love to take it. Why, do you love to give it?”

“Pretty much sums me up.” I clicked off my own safety gear and stripped myself down. He bent his head down to pay some tender attention to my piercings, and I lay back and let him. It had been a long while since someone had shown my body this much enthusiasm. I could really get used to it.

“Be careful,” I warned him, the further down he went, “it hasn’t been defanged recently.”

He backed off in an instant. “What hasn’t.”

I spread my legs for him and displayed my cock, standing to full attention and sporting a claw-like fang that curved up from the tip. “I should have gotten it pulled this week, but it seemed like wishful thinking,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“Is it poisonous?” he asked me.

“Only if you’re allergic to semen.” I sighed. “All the same, I don’t think I can fuck you with this tonight.”

“It’s also different than what I’m used to, in terms of size and shape,” he admitted warily. “Not that I wouldn’t want to try…”

“That said, I do have a strap-on,” I offered.

“A what?”

I explained the concept of a dildo and harness to him, which he found entirely novel but seemed game for. We went back to the familiar territory of tongues for a while, and when I nudged his hips with mine, he slipped out of his shitagi. As soon as those were off, his cock poked its way out of its protective folds to nudge insistently against my stomach. And then another joined it.

The were thin, knobby, pinkish-white, and each about a foot long. How such a small creature hid such a huge thing inside of himself, I couldn’t imagine. “Can I stroke them?” I asked, and he let me. They were moist and glistening, and I wrapped them together in my hand and pumped. Each one responded to my touch on his own, and I found myself hungry for something I hadn’t wanted in a long time. “Would you feel up to, maybe,” I ventured, “putting these inside of me?”

“Both at once?” I nodded. “I’ve never done that before, but, yeah, yes, I want to, if you think they can fit. I also love to give it.”

“They’ll fit,” I assured him, and got out the lube and a couple of toys. I propped myself up with some pillows, and he started working my entrance with his fingers.

“You’re tight,” he noted. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine, once I get that plug in me,” I assured him. He seemed skeptical, but kept fingering me, and at my insistence, finally gave me the plug to put in myself. It slid in fast, but felt weird, and I hissed.

“Hey, are you all right? Watch?” he asked me. “Talk to me, please talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t gotten fucked like this in a really long time,” I explained. The last time had not gone well, to put it lightly. “I want to, I just don’t know if I can, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s all right, we can do that some other time. Do you still want to strap-on me? Yes? Let’s do that. Here, I can help you take that out. That’s it, easy. You’re so good, so good for me.”

I collapsed bonelessly, relieved to have it out of me, startled by how hard it made me, to have him be the one to take it out. I wanted to get up, give Cal the good fucking he deserved, but the most I could do was turn onto my back. The only part of me that didn’t seem to have any trouble rising to the occasion was my still-very-hard cock.

“Watch, I’ve got you, you’ve been so good, let me take care of you,” Cal cooed to me. He straddled my hips, put my cock between both of his, and wrapped his hands around all three. He gave a long, slow thrust. “Does that feel good?” he asked.

“More,” I begged, tilting my hips up to meet him. He kept up the rocking, almost maddeningly slow pace, until I grabbed him and urged him to go faster.

“You feel so good,” he gasped. “So, so good. Will you, can you please, Watch, if you can, can you call me a slut?”

“Slut,” I purred, and he gave a little cry of joy. “That’s right, you rub your dicks all over me like the little slut you are. Don’t stop until you come, slut.”

“Oh,” he moaned, “yeah, don’t let go of me, keep grabbing me, oh, oh, I’m so close now, so close to spilling…”

“Do it, come just from rubbing on my cock, you slut, spill it all over me—”

He yelled out so loud that I knew the neighbors would give me hell the next day, and I didn’t give a single damn. His dark seed ran out of him from base to tip, spilling at all angles, probably staining everything. Beautiful. I was at the edge, too, I just needed a certain sensation, it was the damn fang…

I shut my eyes tight, heard the lube bottle opening, then felt the relief of a pair of warm, wet thighs closing around my dick. And then, mercy of mercies, my fang plunged into something wet, soft, and fleshy, and I was crying out, pumping my seed into my conquest, calling Cal’s name and fucking him like I’d wanted to for so long.

We collapsed side by side. After a minute, he got up, threw something away, and brought back a wet cloth to clean us. I felt vaguely that I should be doing part of this, but I was lost to space and time. It was all I could go to let him in when he settled for the night in the crook of my shoulder.

He was shaking, taking in jerky breaths. Crying, I realized.

“Cal, Cal, I’m awake, what’s wrong?” I reached for the lamp and flipped its switch. In the flood of light, I could see him smiling up at me — not crying, but giggling. He was streaked with all the colors of an aurora, and then some. I wondered if he’d believe it if I told him how radiant he was, right then.

“Stay the night,” I invited him, and switched the light back off. We curled up again, me as the big spoon.

But he started to get fidgety. “Something wrong?” I murmured in his ear.

“Just out of curiosity. If you were a binselong, and we were the applicable genders. Would you have bid on me?” His voice was quaking. “I know, I know, it’s a completely hypothetical question…”

“I don’t think I agree with any part of the concept,” I told him flatly.

“Oh.” He stiffened. “Okay.”

“But since you asked.” I huffed. “You have it backwards. I would have wanted you to Choose me.”

“Oh.” He rolled over and smiled into my chest. “Okay, then.” And he fell fast asleep.

Post navigation

One thought on “Binselong”

Oh god I was so sad for Cal and so glad they could be happy in the end. He was just so eager to please and lovely, even if in a socially unacceptable way! I also love how weird but natural all the alien worldbuilding is – interestingly odd, but it flows without being confusing.